


It Isn't Fragile (But It Is)

by alicekittridge



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, Blood, F/F, Other characters are just mentioned, POV Second Person, Present Tense, Sexual Content, Some Graphic Violence, Thought I'd tag them anyways
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-13 03:46:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18460820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alicekittridge/pseuds/alicekittridge
Summary: An evolution of kisses.





	It Isn't Fragile (But It Is)

**Author's Note:**

> This work contains mentions of things and characters from Season 2; if you haven't seen the first two episodes, I recommend you steer clear of this until you have. Other than that, I hope you enjoy this oneshot! The title is from a tiny poem of mine called "Love."
> 
> \--  
> Content warning: Mentions of blood and wounds, and sex.

_What is love, if not this_

_ferocious thing_

_between two people,_

_ignited by a single match, one_

_tiny moment?_

_It isn’t fragile, but it is._

_Easily given in to, easier to_

_break._

—Love

 

—

**_The First_ **

You had thought the first would be against your fridge. The tension was there, the threat, the fear, and when she leaned in you thought you’d feel her lips brush yours, taking something from you that wasn’t your death—and she hadn’t wanted to kill you after all, only smell the perfume you’d applied to your pulse points half an hour earlier. But it had been a kiss, in its own way.

            It was so long ago, that moment, and now there’s a new one in the making.

            The hotel room is dark except for a lamp and Villanelle’s robed body, bright too, brighter than the lamp. It makes you angry, how at ease she can be after breaking protocol and causing a near-public uproar. The anger spurs you forward, to her, and you hit her in the chest with the palms of your hands. And then you grab her face and you kiss her. Time stills as you both take in the shock of it.

            “You bastard,” you hiss, and kiss her again, reveling and hating her teeth that sink so sweetly into your lip.

 

**_The Second_ **

It follows not long after the first, when the case has had a new development and you’re sitting in a hotel room in Paris of all places, something upscale—surprising, for MI6; usually the places are par or subpar at best—with room service. You pick through the day’s findings while you do the same with dinner, and you admit to yourself that Villanelle is a surprisingly good ally to have while hunting for a different assassin. That her methods, as unusual as they sometimes are, are incredibly useful and insightful.

            “Why did you call me a piece of shit?” you ask suddenly around your fork.

            From the other bed, Villanelle stops chewing for only a second. “Because you are,” she replies easily.

            You scoff. “You’ve destroyed some of me too.”

            “Are you sure it was my doing?”

            “Yes,” you say, scooping the last of the beef dish into your mouth. Villanelle shifts on the bed; her silverware clanks against the china. You freeze—it seems to be an automatic reaction, at this point—and she comes to your bed, standing in front of you, plate in hand, fork held down by her thumb. She could crack that plate over your head and use a shard to slit your throat open.

            “You’re indulgent,” Villanelle murmurs, “and you don’t think how it’s affecting your life until it’s affecting you.” She sets her dishes back on the cart, kneels in front of you. Her eyes are dark, intent. “You like indulging in me. That other woman? She’ll do nothing for you.” Her lips are so close but she’s holding off, like she’s waiting for permission. “I bet you don’t even get off to her.”

            Your face grows hot. There’s a smirk tugging up the right side of her mouth. You growl and close the very short distance between you. She doesn’t freeze this time; she kisses back just as hungrily and runs a hand up your trouser-clad thigh. You take it and press it into your breast.

 

**_The Third_ **

The Ghost’s trail goes cold and everything is at a standstill. Somehow it feels as if you’re on a boat in the middle of the ocean and there’s neither wind to kiss the sails or waves to even rock the damn thing and you’re just waiting for something that might never come. You spend more time at home than you do in the office—trying to avoid Hugo and his questions and the suggestive looks he gives you and Kenny and you wonder when the fuck you’re gonna tell him Kenny isn’t the person you’re having an affair with—combing through files and papers you know by memory, trying to find something new, something you might’ve missed. Carolyn’s on speed dial in your phone; you try to keep the calls to a minimum. (If there was anything new, you’d be the first to know.) Niko is gone more and more, his worry kept private when before he would voice it, at your stir-craziness, your restlessness, your strings of curses.

            It’s a Tuesday. Week two of nothing to go on except a few witnesses who’re brought into the office for questioning but can only give vague accounts. You’re flipping through the files again, the witness statements, and wonder if Villanelle is just as bored as you are. You can picture her soaking in a hot bath to pass the time, maybe thinking of the cases, trying to get into the Ghost’s subtle, anonymous head.

            With a sigh and a hasty final flip of the file, you pull out your phone.

            Villanelle answers on the second ring. _“Hello?”_

“I need you to look at something.”

            _“Can’t sleep, Eve?”_ she says. _“What is it?”_

“Just… a file. I might’ve missed something.”

            You hear clothes rustling, maybe the zipping of a coat, or jeans. She hangs up.

            It’s raining heavily by the time she arrives, her hair damp and stringy, her navy parka zipped to her chin to ward off the chill. It’s strange to invite her in; she needs no invitation, given the way she’d broken in here the night you’d eaten a tense shepherd’s pie dinner. Her boots squeak on the floor.

            “Which file?” she asks around a sigh. Is she tired from lack of sleep, or from chasing someone so elusive? Or unpleasant news she’d received before you called?

            You lead her to the office. The rest of the house is dark, streetlight leaking through various windows and casting eerie orange glows. Here, there’s only the light of your computer and desk lamp, creating a yellow-white spotlight on your well-used chair, the stacks of papers and files, the few books on psychopathy you haven’t put back on your shelf, just in case you might need to crack them open for someone else. (They’re textbooks, theory things; Villanelle is not a textbook. You don’t think she ever has been.)

            “This one,” you say, sinking into your chair, handing her the latest case file, and you know she knows you haven’t called her just to look at it. She takes off her rain-wet parka, hangs it on one of the free hooks by the office door. (Niko’s is gone. He may not be back till after sunrise, or tomorrow.) But Villanelle opens the file regardless, looks over it standing up, a furrow between her brows. You stare until you remember that she’s, again, your guest.

            “Do you… want something to drink?” you ask tentatively. It’s 2 AM.

            “None of your cheap shit,” Villanelle says, not looking up from the file.

            The most expensive thing you have is a small bottle of whiskey that you and Niko had bought on a whim many years ago as a gag anniversary gift. The bottle has dust on it but there are sort-of-fresh finger markings on it—Niko’s. Maybe he takes nips of it when you’re not looking. You don’t care. You’re quickly running out of those. You pour a measure into two glasses and bring them back to the office.

            Villanelle is clicking through your computer—profiles on the witnesses, the ones you’d interviewed the past two days, including this afternoon. She says, “They’re not very useful.”

            “They’ve given similar accounts.”

            “So I see.” Villanelle leans back, puts her hands behind her head. “She’ll slip up. The quiet ones always do.”

            “What do you think of her?” you ask, unable to help it.

            “Boring as shit.”

            “Come on.”

            “Who’s better?” Villanelle questions, spinning in your chair to face you. “Me or her?”

            You hold one of the glasses of whiskey out to her. Why would she ask such a question? “Are you serious?”

            “I am.” It means two things, coming from her. “I don’t think she excites you as much.” She accepts the glass, takes a small sip, chases the flavor before swallowing. She hums. “Konstantin liked whiskey.”

            It’s a surprising, rather personal reveal, and there’s a tender note in her voice. “I’m sorry,” you say, feeling slightly pathetic that you can’t say anything else, or reveal that she shouldn’t’ve used the past tense. You drain your glass in one large sip. The whiskey is strong. You swallow down a cough.

            The rain becomes even heavier. The drops sound like static. Thunder rumbles right over the house, echoes seconds later somewhere else. You don’t think sleep will come anytime soon. And you realize that it isn’t the whiskey that’s making you warm.

            You set your glass aside and she runs her eyes over you, purely observant but heavy with what you now know to be desire. You take a single deep breath. “Get on your knees.”

            Villanelle obeys, quickly taking off her boots and socks while you sit in the desk chair. She kneels in front of you, waiting, expectant. She says, “I never thought you’d be the kind to call me for a fuck.”

            You laugh. Real and genuine. “Does that bother you?”

            “There are things that are high on my list,” Villanelle says, leaning up, “but that isn’t one of them.” She kisses you softly, tasting, asking. You cup her face, open your mouth to accept her tongue. You like kissing her. You like how different it feels, how kissing her makes you feel like you’re burning, how much softer she is to kiss than Niko. Her French kisses are both tender and suggestive in the sense that she could be doing the same thing between your thighs. You kiss her and you end up winded.

            “Do you want to touch it?” Villanelle asks, her own breathing quick, her breath warm against your lips and chin. You glance down to her stomach, to the place beneath her sweater where you know your inflicted wound is. You swallow, already imagining what waits.

            You lean forward, reaching for the hem of her sweater with both hands, holding onto it for the few crucial seconds it takes to gather the courage to pull it up. She isn’t wearing a bra underneath it. She helps you get it over her head and you let it fall to the floor.

            It isn’t as brutal a wound as you had imagined, or dreamed. In dreams, it was always gaping, this wide open thing that poured blood even as she held her hand uselessly against it. You could fit yours inside it and scoop her out handful by bloody handful. But here it’s a pink line, silvery with new skin in the middle, tiny silver dots where the stitches had gone in. You touch it gently with the pad of your thumb. It’s soft, slightly raised. She shivers and gooseflesh erupts over her skin.

            “It’s…” You trail off. Your tongue is sticky.

            “Sensitive?”

            “Healing.”

            “Still sensitive.” She kisses you again. “You got me.”

            “I’m sorry,” you tell her, not knowing entirely why. You’d done it out of revenge. Because you could. But apologies don’t necessarily repair damage, just as stabbing the woman who killed your best friend doesn’t bring him back. You drag your fingers upward, circle her left nipple, stroke it until it stiffens.

            “Eve,” Villanelle whispers. Entirely wanting. The first time you’d slept with her, you learned that she liked you to bite her nipples, and you want to, but instead you pull away and unzip your trousers, take them and your underwear clumsily from your legs. You pull her to you, kiss her, and propel her between your thighs. You gasp at the touch of her mouth, the slow but practiced lick of her tongue. You shudder, tighten your hand in her hair; she groans softly in response.

            “Put your feet up,” Villanelle murmurs, and goes back in when you obey.

            “Shit.”

            She slips a finger inside, crooks it.

            “Jesus…” A rhythm starts just as you let your head fall back against the desk chair. “Go left,” you breathe. She does, and a second finger joins the first. “Fuck, right there…”

            The rain grows even louder. You think it might actually be hail. Thunder cracks, shaking the walls, rattling the window in the hallway. Your computer goes dark in sleep. The witness file for the Ghost ends up on the floor in your clumsy attempt to grip the desk when you come, intensely, against Villanelle’s mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> Edit: I got the title wrong, initially. I fixed it.


End file.
